


here and now

by skamz



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Strangers to ?, what is this i do not know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skamz/pseuds/skamz
Summary: They've never really spoken to each other, but Even offers Isak a shoulder (or two) to cry on.





	here and now

**Author's Note:**

> basically this thing happened because i was feeling not so well. it's short and ridiculous and honestly idk what else to say

It feels like a small container about to overflow, a balloon about to explode, an elastic about to snap.

 _Break_.

Isak isn't sure how much longer he can keep it together. It's been 18:49 for the past hour, it seems, the time on his phone won't budge everytime he checks it. He doesn't know how long he can keep blinking harshly and sniffing and how long he can keep the lump in his throat buried there because one thing's for sure, he's not about to fucking cry on the tram. 

He gets off one stop early, because it's too crowded and he can't  _breathe_. The faint breeze feels nice against his face, but when he tries to inhale deeply, he just—

Just—

He can't. 

And so the only thing he focuses on is being back in his bedroom, closing the door behind him, and getting the chance to let it all out. He tries to focus on that, and not his internship and his asshole of a boss, and not his mother who's back at the hospital, and not his dad who won't pick up the phone and answer his texts, and not his friends he hasn't seen in a month, and not how disconnected he feels, and not how nothing seems to be going right, and not the fact that he feels like he has absolutely no control over any of it. 

He walks and walks, his steps fast and determined. And then he's running up the stairs to his apartment, and the key getting stuck in the lock is enough to make him want to give up right now and then. His hand shakes, but he finally manages to open it, and he's heading straight to his room, doesn't even take off his shoes. Except—

"Baby gay! You're home early for dinner—"

And he  _knows_ it's not a reproach, he knows Eskild means no harm, he knows Eskild loves him and Isak loves him right back, and he's his family, and he said nothing wrong at all.

"Stop fucking calling me that!" he still interrupts, and he hates the sound of his voice when he hears it, hates the words and sort of hates himself, too, hates this version of himself. The version that snaps, the version that's losing control, the version that's mean when all he wants is to be kind.

The version that leaves, the one that can't muster up the strength to say _sorry_ despite the guilt that's now adding up to this massive pile of  _too much_ that's already crushing him.

(Overflowing.)

He closes the door of his room slowly, gently. He really, really doesn't want to be harsh. 

Isak sits on the edge of his bed, and it doesn't hit him as quickly as he expected, as hard. His eyes well up and the lump in his throat swells up, until he finally allows himself to let out a small sob. And tears start to stream down his cheeks, a continuous flow, and he feels them down his neck. He doesn't bother to wipe his eyes, doesn't care how blurry his vision has gotten. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, with his chin pressing against the heel of his hand, and his elbow digging into his thigh, and it hurts, probably. He'd probably care more if he managed to focus on the nerve endings there, if he didn't feel so outside of himself. 

He falls asleep, eventually, body exhausted from the lack of sleep and running around all day the small amount of endorphins he released while crying. 

Isak wakes up not too long after, not feeling well rested, his eyes burning and his head aching, pounding. 

His throat is dry and the bottle of water on his nightstand is empty. He needs to go to the kitchen if he wants to get something to drink, which means that he risks facing his roommates. For a moment, he asks himself if he's really that thirsty, but he quickly concludes that he is. He takes a look at himself in the mirror: his hair's a mess, he's still wearing his scrubs, he looks tired but his eyes are not bloodshot. You can't tell he was crying earlier.

So, he gets out of his room, slowly walks to the kitchen, almost hesitantly, feeling like he doesn't quite belong here, doesn't quite deserve to be here right now. 

There are no sounds coming from there, which is a good sign, indicating that there might be no one in the kitchen, until—

The telltale creaking sound of the left cabinet door being opened, and this boy standing in front of it. 

Isak's seen him around, a couple of time. He's one of Linn's colleague's from work, from what he understood. His name is—

Shit, he forgot that. 

(Or maybe he never bothered to ask. He doesn't know which one's worse.) 

Isak considers turning around, coming back a few minutes later, in order to avoid the awkwardness, but the guy has already turned around, has already caught him staring in his direction. 

"Hey," he says, face and voice both neutral. 

Isak swallows. "Hey," he replies. 

He stands there like an idiot for a moment, before he heads toward the sink to fill a cup of water. 

"Isak, right?" 

Isak nods. He looks at the guy, apology in his eyes, because he doesn't know his name. 

"Even," he simply says, then. There's a small smile on his lips, and in his eyes. 

Isak nods again. 

"You okay?" 

Isak's shoulders go tense, it's like he can physically feel his guard shooting up. He doesn't know what to say, only knows that he doesn't want to give a truthful answer, which would be  _no._ Once more, he nods. 

He takes a large sip of water, and then says: "Sorry, about earlier. Sorry, if I, like—" Oh fuck. Oh fuck, _fuck_. His throat is feeling tight again, the words are getting stuck. "Ruined—the mood." 

"It's okay," he hears.

Isak tries to take a deep breath, but it doesn't work. He tries to take another sip of water, but that doesn't seem to help either, and his vision is turning blurry again, and he can't stop it, and if he rubs his eyes, he'll make it all even more obvious.

"I'm not usually like that," he says, voice a pitch higher, his chin quivering. 

"Hey, I know," Even whispers. 

"I love Eskild, and Linn, and I'm  _not—"_

There's wetness on his cheek, again, and he looks down, although he knows that won't hide anything. He's already been caught. 

He's not exactly sure he cares anymore. 

There's a hand on his shoulder, not gripping it, just—there. A warm weight, a touch. "Isak." 

Isak shakes his head. He can't look up, he can't—

A gentle squeeze, and then the hand reaches his cheek, cupping it. Isak leans against it without meaning to, as if his body was welcoming the support, his own feet having trouble holding him up. 

"Isak," he repeats, and his voice is gentle, and Isak doesn't understand, doesn't  _know_ him. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Isak bites the inside of his lip, tries to keep his chin from trembling. He quickly shakes his head. 

"Is it okay if I stay with you?" 

A moment passes, and eventually, he nods, finds himself mentally clinging to this guy who's basically a stranger to him, objecting the idea of him leaving. 

Arms—two arms are being wrapped around him and holding him together, it seems. Warm and offering just the right amount of pressure. 

It's like something inside of him unlocks. 

Isak sort of melts into the embrace, as if he was letting go of his own weight. And Even holds him, keeps repeating that  _It's okay, it's okay_ , and Isak still doesn't understand, doesn't understand this amount of generosity and kindness being offered to him so randomly, but he can't bring himself to reject it. He ignores the lack of logic, the confusion. 

He buries his face into the crook of Even's neck. "This is so stupid."

"No, it's not," Even disagrees, his hand going up and down Isak's back, steadily, soothingly. "It's not," he repeats. 

And so Isak allows himself to cry for a little while, and he's making a mess, and—

"Your shirt's getting wet," he says.

A quiet chuckle, so close to his ear, and it's not mocking at all. "I have another shoulder," Even offers.

So, Isak lifts his head, switches side, and Even puts a hand on the back of it, runs his fingers through his hair. Isak can't remember the last time someone has touched him like this, it's been so long that the sensation feels foreign and new, and yet like it's exactly what he needed right here, right now. 

Isak wraps his own arms around Even, gently squeezes as he whispers: "Thank you." 

Even holds him a little tighter. "You're welcome," he says, his voice still so quiet and comforting. "I can—" He seems to hesitate for a second, Isak can hear him swallowing. "I can stay as long as you want me to."

Isak wraps his fingers around a fistful of his shirt, clutches it.  _Please_. 

And so Even does just that, here in this kitchen, and later in his room: 

He comforts him. 

He stays.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hi you who made it here. i hope you're doing well and are going to have a good day 


End file.
